Respice - Adspice - Prospice
by Louisia
Summary: She's looking for answers, but only finds more questions. He's trying to help her, but screws it all up. They're both after the same thing, but is it too late? M for language.


_We dreamed a sweet dream, you and I,  
All in the summer weather,  
Where rose and wine and warm sunshine  
Were mingled in together.  
We dreamed that June was with us yet,  
We woke to find December.  
We dreamed that we two could forget,  
We woke but to remember._

The pale light of morning spilled in from outside, the muntins casting shadow over the quilted bed and giving it the look of a chess board. The rustle of tree branches in the light breeze outside whispered unintelligible, but comforting things. Birds chippered in the background and somewhere down the block someone was mowing their lawn.

_Click._

"-Fifty-three degrees this morning; get out there and do those chores while you can, it's gonna be a scorcher today. Eighty-six by eleven o'clock, and we're looking at _triple digits _come mid-afternoon."

An uncomfortable "_Umph!_" huffed from beneath a mountain of pillows. A blonde mop of tangled hair rolled slowly toward the nightstand, and a small hand snaked out to click off the radio.

A contented sigh fell on the blissfully still air of the bedroom. The serenity of the morning was not lost on the tiny figure wrapped up cozily in her goose-down quilt; in fact, such tranquility had been utterly nonexistent in her life lately, and this was the precise reason she was so intently taking it for granted. It was a difficult and uncomfortable thing for her to let her guard down, and now that she had successfully been able to relax she wasn't prepared to move any time soon. The minutes ticked on slowly as she idled, falling back into a sweet slumber she hadn't known in almost eight months.

An ungodly screech wailed high and loud, faltered briefly, and ended in a massive crash that shook the house entirely. Completely jarred by the sudden avalanche of noise, Sherry Birkin impetuously rolled out of bed, reached for her gun and shot her bedroom door three times.

It took about a minute for her to fully understand what she'd just done, and when she did she dropped her gun to her side and huffed. So much for bliss.

Shoving her gun under her pillow and hastily tossing on a bathrobe, she went downstairs to investigate what she could only conclude to be a car wreck, by the sound.

The stairs creaked under the weight of her and the hard wood chilled her toes; she wrapped herself up tighter.

When she opened the front door, she was surprised to find nothing of concern on the street; she did, however, spot the several neighbors across the way, gaping at her house for some reason. Suspiciously, Sherry walked down the front path and turned around, hoping to see what was so damn fascinating. Then she spotted the source of all the commotion.

"Hey- I am _so _sorry, I was backing up and-"

"...And you didn't notice my, um-" Sherry gestured toward her point, "you know, my _garage_?"

"I _did_, I was just backing in to turn around, and- oh, you've driven manuals before, right? The shift got stuck and I thought I got it, but... I guess it was still... in reverse..."

The garage door had been completely unhinged, and was bent around the frame of the invading pickup truck. Sherry's own car behind it had no doubt taken its own share of the damage, though she couldn't exactly see it. "Do you have insurance?"

"Yes!" The woman enthused, eager to appease. "In the glove box, I'll go get it."

She watched the woman run to her car and attempt to wrestle the passenger door open- despite it being wedged against the threshold of the garage opening. As she carried on with her struggle, Sherry opted to head inside and grab her cell. Would this be homeowner's or auto insurance? Was she supposed to call the police? She should probably call a tow truck. Oh, and take pictures.

It was as she was walking back down the stairs that it occurred to her, this was the kind of problem that delivered exactly what she had come home to find; a challenge in which failure did not mean death. _But... _here she was, _happy _to be dealing with a _car accident_ right now. Something about that rang up as a little more than strange in her head. Excitement was certainly not lacking in her current occupation, and for a moment she briefly wondered how it was she came to get caught up in this insane lifestyle of hers.

Then she remembered that her work was not her lifestyle, but just a mission. Its nature was chaos, and death, and terror, and no more defined who she was inside than the color of her hair or the type of music she listened to.

It was kind of refreshing to see it like that. And to think, it only took the utter destruction of her garage to bring on this new perspective.

* * *

It was about six o'clock, and the sun in Edonia was especially blistering today.

The heavy thud of boots slapping on asphalt echoed loudly off the tall residential buildings lining the road. Everyone had shut in for the afternoon, as if sensing imminent danger was a matter of instinct for them. Accompanying the boots were a clicky pair of heels; they came more frequent in shorter strides.

"Are you sure this was a good idea?" A panicked woman inquired to the man just inches in front of her, whose hand held her upper arm in a vice grip. Her breathing was labored and frantic, and she was on the verge of collapse. She was wearing a black cocktail dress, the hem of which ended mid-thigh, and her three-inch heels weren't helping matters; it was clear that an evening sprint had not been on the agenda.

"Not really, no!" Came the man's reply as bullets rained down on them from a window somewhere. He saw an alley out of the line of fire and slid into a sharp turn, practically dragging the young woman behind him.

"I can't keep this up!"

"You _have_ to!"

Looking for a way into one of the buildings, Jake almost didn't notice the black Buick come to a screeching halt in front of them. It wasn't until a scream from his companion and the telltale sound of a MAC-10 clip locking into position that he noticed the obstruction.

"Jump!" Was the only thing that occurred to him, and they did. His foot landed on the door where the window was rolled down, and from there he hopped onto the roof of the car. His companion was nowhere near as agile and her knees slid on the hood, causing an outcry of pain at contact with the hot metal. He jumped from the car just as bullets tore through the roof, and yanked the woman after him.

"I'm gonna fall!" She warned, and Jake swore under his breath.

"Here!" he shouted, pulling her into a descending flight of stairs. They stopped briefly so Jake could collect his thoughts.

The turn in the stairs overlooked the Struma river, and it was from here he saw the ferry boarding passengers. If they could make that boat, then they had a chance.

"Time to move!" he shouted, and the woman who'd doubled over to breathe was jerked down the remaining steps just as a hail of bullets dug into the concrete railing.

It looked to be about three kilometers from where they were, and he wasn't sure if his tag-along could hold out. He'd need to find a car.

* * *

Her phone rang just as Sherry was making breakfast. It surprised her, not because it was nine o'clock on a Sunday, but because the call came through on her landline. It was for this reason she suspected it was the insurance company returning her call, and it was for _that _reason she was caught off-guard when the person on the other end addressed her as 'Agent Birkin'.

"Can I help you?" She asked, checking the caller ID. The number read as 'unlisted'.

"I'll be brief," the person she was speaking to was a woman. An rather impatient one, by the sound of it. "In your mailbox there is a manilla envelope. Retrieve it."

This set off all kinds of alarms in Sherry's head. _Don't talk to strangers. _Sadly enough, this was a concept that held true even in adulthood, though... did it still count if it was over the phone? "Who is this?"

"Your new handler." The way the woman said it rang as oddly cryptic to Sherry. No one had mentioned anything to her about this. Of course, she'd certainly gathered that she'd be reporting to someone new, given the fact that National Security Adviser Simmons had been proven a traitor (and then then later killed), but to say that this was unconventional was a gross understatement.

"Handler...?"

"Time is a factor, Agent Birkin. I recommend sooner than later."

Sherry felt she had little choice but to comply. When she opened her door, the first thing she noticed was the strangest car she'd ever seen in real life, sitting on the curb in front of her house. She squinted, but no one was inside that she could see. The next thing she noticed was the oversized manilla envelope sticking out awkwardly from her mailbox.

"What's going on?" She asked the lady on the other line.

"Do you like the car? It's a Lamborghini Bicolore. If it's not to your tastes we can get you another."

"W-what?"

"Open the envelope, Agent Birkin."

Sherry did as instructed, and a set of keys spilled out onto her porch step.

"Are these...?"

"There's a route already mapped on the GPS. You have thirty minutes."

The line went dead, and Sherry frowned. Was this for real? She looked suspiciously at the car twenty feet from her, and then down to the keys at her feet.

She retreated into the house to grab her cell phone and dial the office, hoping to figure out what was going on.

"I'm sorry, Miss Birkin. You no longer report to this facility."

Inside, she was hopelessly puzzled. This had to be the single most strange thing to ever happen to her in her- okay, maybe not. But it was pretty damn weird. "Who do I report to, then?"

"Um... your file is locked out. I'm afraid I don't know much."

"Is there _anything _you can tell me?"

"Uh, let's see... Your file status says 'pending department transfer'. That's honestly all I know."

She let out a slow breath, considering what this meant. "Right. Thanks."

Okay. Option one; she could call the cops. But suppose the car _was _stolen. How would she explain how it came to be in her possession? And if it wasn't, what actual crime had been committed? They'd tell her to call a tow truck, and probably slap her with a fine for wasting the city's resources.

Option two. She could ignore the call, the envelope, and the car, simply carry on with her day, and go into work Monday morning like nothing happened. If they'd even let her into the building.

Option three. She could get in the car, (which very well may be stolen, she pointed out to herself) drive to wherever the GPS told her, and see for herself what these people wanted.

Option two was the most feasible and -quite honestly- the most sensible. After all, what reason had she been given to obey the orders of some mysterious woman? Except, perhaps, a very nice car.

_Which could be stolen_, Sherry reminded herself. It would be a bad idea- no, a _terrible _idea to get in that car.

She downed her coffee and looked outside. They could be murderers. Kidnappers. Criminals.

_Who just leaves some stranger with a car like that? Not likely._

Money launderers? Con-artists?

_Again. Not likely._

But then, this begged the question- what sort of person _would _do something like this? Super secret agent types, she supposed. Someone who _really _wanted something that only she could give. Someone, she eventually concluded, who wanted her on the payroll.

After she was dressed, the stove was turned off and the eggs she hadn't had a chance to fully cook were tossed out, she grabbed her phone and the keys from the porch. Standing on her stoop, she gave the car one long look before locking the house up and heading down the front path.

**Don't know how I feel about this. If someone could give me a little feedback, I'd be grateful. Just let me know if I should keep writing it or not, and if so what I need to work on. Thanks! :)**


End file.
